


The Way Back

by randomscientist



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Partners to Lovers, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Pre-Canon, With a Happy Resolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 08:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17618951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomscientist/pseuds/randomscientist
Summary: Records say, that Greg Lestrade has been under the Met’s employ since the year he completed his education and training. Records say, that he had taken four months' leave in 1996, following severe injuries whilst on duty.The same records that Greg himself had relied upon to fill in for the void in his memory, when he was transferred as Detective Sergeant into a different division upon his return.*Records say, that Mycroft Holmes has no pressure point outside of family, that the Ice Man has never been married or engaged.Records make no mention, but a select few once took note, that Mycroft — when he was a young man still — began to wear a gold band on his right hand, around the time they had lost an agent to a bullet intended for another.*Records mislead. Records deceive. There are truths that existing records cannot tell.Undocumented, untraceable. ..Unforgotten.





	The Way Back

“I missed you, Greg,” Mycroft had murmured against his shoulder, for the first time allowing himself to be wrapped gently in Greg’s arms, to accept the offered company and care. The elder Holmes was on the verge of collapsing into sleep, exhausted from the whole mess with Sherrinford ( _Christ_ ), and the words were probably not meant for Greg to hear.

Later, Greg would question to himself whether he’d really heard them at all.

They were long past being mere acquaintances or contacts, him and Mycroft, though hardly friends, at least not by the usual definition — but then, what of the Holmes brothers ever went by usual definitions?

Sometimes Greg wondered if he might be among the closest equivalents that Mycroft would allow. It couldn’t have been a very long list, the number of people Mycroft entrusted with his brother, who’d been by Mycroft’s side time and again, watching over Sherlock as the drugs in his system dropped to levels more acceptable; people who grinned at Mycroft, on the occasions when the minor government official (yeah, right) hadn’t turned up just to be the bearer of trouble; people who dared to challenge him, called BS when they saw it, slipped in a witty or teasing remark here and there, and witnessed Mycroft’s impression of a stern face failing to conceal the tug of a smile.

Greg liked Mycroft. Liked the man under the frost and suits. Liked the suits too, in fact. And that was where he’d let the thought drop without venturing further. The entirety of his association with Mycroft, and invariably every interaction they ever had, had been in the context of Sherlock or a case — or indeed, Sherlock on a case. Mycroft seemed resolved to keep it that way, carefully maintaining his distance. More than once it’d made Greg reconsider, if the flash of something he felt, taut and warm in the air between them, had been his mind’s illusion after all.

Contrary to what Mycroft’s (bit of a show-off of a) brother would have them believe, not all genius wished for an audience, just as not all silence anticipated being broken. And Greg respected that. He’d long decided that Mycroft simply wasn’t interested in companionship, in associating with lesser minds beyond the extent necessitated by his work and his duties. That Mycroft never wanted anything from Greg other than his cooperation and support, the occasional conversation.

There hadn’t been any indication otherwise, not really. Prior to this day.

Yet now here he sat, on the large leather sofa in a private room at the Diogenes. With Mycroft. Having Mycroft leaning into him, trusting and warm in his arms, Mycroft’s breathing a pleasant sound in the dimly lit quiet.

Mycroft had looked so shaken up, out of his element even back in the secure confines of his own club. And Greg had reached out tentatively, pulling Mycroft into a hug. Not expecting that it would be returned, that arms would tighten, and rest, eventually forgetting to let go. Not expecting the moment to extend into one much longer, one that kept lengthening and didn’t want to end. And he most definitely wasn’t expecting Mycroft’s murmured words.

Greg had the distinct sense that Mycroft wasn’t referring to them having barely seen each other for weeks. More strangely, in that very long, very nice moment, Greg found that a part of him desperately wanted to return the sentiment — was that possible, missing something you never had? Yet this felt..familiar, somehow, being close to Mycroft, singularly unlike being with anybody else.

It felt like finding again something he wasn’t aware he had lost.

..As though from another lifetime.

* * *

 

Greg didn’t have the nightmares too often, but when they did plague his dreams, they’d only ever revolved around one common theme.

 _Staircases. Corridors, far too many of them. Him rushing through one after another, out of breath, adrenaline in his veins and a sense of duty clear in his mind._ Must find them. God, please, don’t let it be too late.

He would always wake up without knowing whether he’d fulfilled his task. Though sometimes, not before reliving a different snapshot from what he presumed to be the same, harrowing experience.

 _Bright light that hurt his eyes, and the silhouette of a young man, blocking some of it. Greg could never see his face, though he appeared to be crying, his shoulders shaking._ Tell me who you are _, Greg wanted to say,_ Tell me why we’re here, what made you this upset _, but the tightness in his throat would not let him._

Those were visions that had persisted since as far back as he could remember, which was when he'd woken up that dreadful day, twenty years ago, in an unfamiliar room, the smell of disinfectant coating the air. With numbed limbs, a thumping headache, and absolutely no idea who he was.

The Chief Super had spoken directly to him about the case that had been the reason for his hospitalisation. Spoke _of_ it, rather, Greg suspected on behalf of somebody higher up. It was classified information, as it turned out, and Greg, in his condition, no longer had clearance. (Which was just fucking _fantastic_ , the irony of it all; now he _really_ had a chance of bloody well remembering.) He was nonetheless reassured that the case was in the hands of the very best, and any remaining complications were soon to be dealt with.

The entire thing smelt of MI5 involvement, though Greg’s surmise was neither confirmed nor denied.

* * *

 

Mycroft seemed to have retreated back a step, once again guarded by his reservations when Greg had found him, a week after that evening at the Diogenes, hoping they would talk.

He was getting better at reading the younger man, could see reflected in his gaze a state of conflict underneath, though Mycroft’s composure was never lost. Greg had his own doubts, not wanting to presume, but this time he was certain he did not misread that whisper of longing, habitually restrained by too much worry.

Mycroft began to say something about..not being the man he used to be, before stopping himself, his eyes looking away.

Greg gave it a final try, letting his voice convey the sincerity of his words.

“One drink, Mycroft. Then tell me you didn’t enjoy it, and you’ll never hear me ask again. ..Won’t break you. Promise.” And they might discover something great. One chance might be all it took.

Mycroft’s eyes had widened, for a fraction of a second. More surprised than moved, as though Greg’d just delivered a piece of data personal and new.

Greg left a few minutes later, smiling as he entered the agreed time into the calendar on his phone.

* * *

 

For men like them, each with nearly half a century and its vicissitudes of seasons behind, their first kiss — or rather first series of small kisses — was what could only be described as sweetly delicate.

Greg had initiated it, two dates after that initial (what ended up being more than) ‘one drink’, as the hands on the wall clock indicated that their evening would be nearing its conclusion. A light brushing of their mouths, a pause, followed by another brush, transitioning into soft lips pressing together more ardently, parting as the kiss deepened.

They held each other, sharing breaths still infused with whisky, and another, longer kiss.

That night, in Greg’s slumbering mind, the young man gripping his shirt slowly stopped crying. When he looked up, it was Mycroft’s smouldering grey eyes that had met Greg’s.

* * *

 

It didn’t take a Holmes to know about his nightmares. Especially after Mycroft had been right beside him one night, a hand on his arm and an expression full of concern, as Greg startled awake on sweat-soaked sheets. 

He never mentioned the content of those dreams, and Mycroft kept himself from asking.

He did bring up the case involving the Security Service, once — it was exactly the sort that Mycroft would _know_. Mycroft’s response had been brief and apologetic, expressing that he understood that it had been important to Greg, but regretted being unable to say much more. And they’d left it at that.

There was a reason and a time for everything, and Greg trusted Mycroft’s judgement of the latter, enough to put his own enquiry into the former on indefinite hold.

Greg never thought a relationship with Mycroft Holmes, the man who secured secrets and built lies probably as part of his professional responsibilities and routine, would fall into place so..easily, natural as picking up a favourite book.

They continued to grow close, and closer still. Greg’s belongings appeared to be slowly finding their way into Mycroft’s home, Greg’s presence making itself known. Starting from bits of clothing in Mycroft’s bedroom — a spare shirt or two in Mycroft’s wardrobe, evolving into full sets of work attire — and a second toothbrush above the sink in the en suite, branching outwards into the library, the living room, and the study that saw addition of another armchair by the now-larger desk.

* * *

 

He’d mulled it over for weeks, even after the purchase, worrying if it had been too soon. Twelve years of knowing each other, but barely a year as lovers. They never even talked about the ring already in place on Mycroft’s other hand, one he’d always known Mycroft to have worn.

Something of familial rather than romantic significance, most likely. Forming — and accepting — a connection with another human being, emotionally as well as physically, did not come easily to Mycroft. It was part of who he was, part of the impossible (extraordinary) man that Greg had taken seemingly no time at all to fall for.

Although Greg did wonder, if Mycroft’s wariness and hesitance might have at least something to do with what had happened in his past.

The evening they’d found themselves broaching the subject of said past, Mycroft told Greg that his last relationship, the only one worthy of mention, had been in his early twenties, when he still did fieldwork, for his first job.

There was melancholy in Mycroft’s voice when he spoke of the slightly older agent he had been partnered with: confidant, cheeky, fearless — things that Mycroft was not; but a good man, a very kind man, who taught Mycroft much, changed him much, and took gentle care of him.

The hint of fondness crossing Mycroft’s features made him look suddenly that much younger.

It had Greg wishing he could’ve met Mycroft a decade earlier than he had, before he’d met the woman he would marry and divorce. Been company for Mycroft as he mourned the loss of his partner (Greg presumed), and thereafter more than a handler and contact as Mycroft struggled to save his brother from cocaine. Been there throughout these years so that Mycroft didn’t have to be alone.

Mycroft, a young man only just beginning to be recognised for his talents, still bearing the simple label of an Oxford graduate when introduced among his superiors, and not yet established his preferred public persona. Brilliant, and eager to apply everything in his repertoire. A little bookish, a little shy still. And gorgeous — yes, Greg had seen photographs (to Mycroft’s dismay), Mycroft had been a sweetheart.

Greg’s younger self would’ve taken an instant liking to the ginger three years his junior.

* * *

 

Mycroft had distracted Greg from continuing that conversation, with kisses that soon became heated, and thereby effectively avoided giving away the name of the lucky lad who’d been the first to succeed in charming his way into the heart Mycroft Holmes pretended not to have. 

They lay languorously on their sides a while later, Greg’s chest pressed against Mycroft’s back, fingers lightly stroking Mycroft’s hair, smoothing it as he inhaled the scent of shampoo and Mycroft.

“Myke,” he said into the quiet.

“Hm?”

“Have you been in love before?”

There was a pause, before Mycroft replied, in earnest,

“Only you.”

* * *

 

When the question was finally asked, Mycroft knelt down with him, pressed his forehead to Greg’s, his hands clutching Greg’s shoulders, and for a long moment seemed unable to speak.

“Gregory—” he began, finding his voice, “Greg, there’s— Forgive me, I, I should’ve.. I _couldn’t_.. It would not have been safe for you to—” Mycroft shook his head, swallowing.

It was anything but affirmative, which might’ve been concerning. But Greg had never seen Mycroft so far removed from his articulate, composed self, nor knew it possible for a pair of eyes to carry as many and as much depth of emotions and turmoil all at once.

Standing, Mycroft took his hand — the one not still holding the little box — and led him upstairs into the study, apparently deciding to show Greg what he could not explain in words. Greg watched as Mycroft retrieved his thin album of photos, and from which a small envelope tucked inside the pocket in the back cover.

Mycroft produced a faded photograph with care, his hands shaking as he held it for Greg to see.

In the photo was Mycroft himself, his features young and soft. He was looking down, as though shy, but with the slightest smile and seeming completely at ease. And beside him, an arm slotted around Mycroft’s neck, gazing at the younger man with a lopsided grin and adoration written all over his expression, was—

Greg froze.

His recurring dreams. The anguished young man in them. The strange sense of being familiar with things of which he had no tangible recollection, from time to time over the years and ever increasing in frequency since he and Mycroft started seeing each other. Manifestations of those lost memories finding and fighting their way back to him, like long-disregarded ghost files on a computer hard drive that still resisted being overwritten or deleted.

Perhaps all the scattered pieces had been slowly, very slowly returning to the back of his mind, hazy fragment by hazy fragment, and were lying dormant until now. Until he was finally ready for them to be aligned, and an active reminder of what ought not be forgotten would yield relief without distress.

He remembered now. A broad stroke of his genuine personal history at first, the finer shapes and lines resolving more gradually wherever he focused upon. Working at the Met as part of his career with the Security Service. Meeting Myke. Their assignments together. Impressing their superiors with their proficiency as a team. Eventually getting the younger man to acquiesce to a drink with him. Then another.. Soon they had been much more than partners, more than best mates.

Greg remembered the many evenings they’d spent strategising into the night, completing each other’s thoughts; remembered those nights that would end with them pushing aside the spread of maps and files on the bed, making love, falling asleep in a tangle of limbs and matching smiles, and springing into coordinated action before dawn. Such good times, those had been. The best of times.

And suddenly Greg heard his own boyish voice so very clear, as though no time had passed at all since the day he’d said those words.

_“You and me, all right? I know it can’t be official. Keep it anyway, yeah? I just.. just need you to know. Don’t care if the world can’t. Well, or maybe they’ll’ve had it legalised, even before you’ve risen to the right position to see to it yourself, Mr Future Government, who knows,” a chuckle, as Greg saw Mycroft’s scowl at the nickname, an expression he was failing to maintain, “Be nice to see you wear it someday, but that can wait. We’ve got time, Myke. We’ve got all the time in the world.”_

Greg looked up, his gaze meeting Mycroft’s. _Mycroft_. Myke. His Myke ‘Too Clever for Leg Work’ Holmes. The partner and protégé he had loved with every piece of his reckless young heart, with whom he had been prepared to share the remainder of his days, but whose safety he would give up his own to protect, pushing him out of the trajectory of a bullet even if meant stepping into it himself. Had done, and would’ve again in a heartbeat. For Myke. And  _Myke_ , Sherlock’s elder brother, that had for so long cared for Greg from a distance, thinking it’d been for the best, and instead drawn Greg deeper in, and in love for a second time.

Two years together, twenty apart, a year of returning themselves each to the other, and now..

Mycroft had been watching him, and he could see the precise moment that Mycroft _saw_ , Greg’s own stream of emotions mirrored on Mycroft’s face, in a smile that could dim the sun, that was suddenly crumpling, tempestuous, and Greg’s own vision was compromised by what was welling up in his eyes.

He’d never experienced a happier moment in all his life.

And then even that was surpassed when, Mycroft, eyes never leaving his, touched a hand to his cheek, brushing very lightly, and whispered,

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> ..Because what if the metal band that Mycroft wears isn’t one that was passed down? What if there _had_ been someone in his past, a space in his heart, and what if it was Greg all along?
> 
> Under the likely erroneous assumption that it was possible for a police officer to moonlight for MI5 — I couldn’t find on their official site or via Google any key evidence to conclude that it absolutely wasn’t? Insights and criticism are always welcome and appreciated, even if it’s just to say “This bit can’t happen because [citation or personal experience]”, it would be interesting to know! I’m no writer, and non-science is very much ‘not my natural milieu’. I’m just a procrastinator, who sold their soul to Mystrade..
> 
> Never written in the D(C)I’s perspective before (so unused to writing such a _human_ human being; I fear not doing him justice) and uncertain about posting this. I enjoyed seeing Mycroft through his eyes though.. Much sweeter than through little brother’s.
> 
> Have a good Lunar New Year (or 春節快樂) next week to anyone who acknowledges it x  
> Otherwise: hope February/spring treats you well. And (if anyone is reading this far) thank you for stopping by!


End file.
